


Emptied

by orphan_account



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Desperation, Dom Grunkle Stan, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Post-Canon, Wetting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-30
Updated: 2016-11-30
Packaged: 2018-09-03 06:09:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8700433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: “Ford, what I did to you this morning was crass.” He shook himself and zipped back up. “What, are you into that kind of thing?”


  And, well, Ford had never been any good at lying to his brother.

Stan makes Ford hold it for as long as he can.





	

Ford was many things, but he was not an idiot. His intelligence had always been an integral part of his identity; for most of his life, his intellect, coupled with his determination, had been the only thing he prided himself in. No matter the foolish mistakes he’d made in his relationships – he could build mind-control devices when he was still in his twenties, for god’s sake. He had _twelve_ PhD’s. He was fluent in three different languages, could make basic business transactions in three more, and needed the barest assistance to work through at least two more.

So when Stan grinned at him and said, “Alright, dumbass,” Ford had every reason to scoff and make some flippant insult in return about what, then, that made _Stanley._

However: Stan was right. Ford was a dumbass. The proof of that was this: He had actually thought Stanley might behave like an adult when he agreed to this.

Ford thinned his lips and focused all of his energy – or half of it, anyway, because he wasn’t about to divert too much away from his bladder – on sending Stan the most withering glare that mankind had ever known.

“What?” Stan said. He didn’t seem all that concerned about Ford’s glare. Typical Stanley, not recognizing greatness when it was bearing directly down upon him. (Ford was not being dramatic about this. His glare, he knew, would have knocked Reagan flat on his ass.) “Can’t handle it? Is it too _much_ for ya?”

“Shut your mouth,” Ford snapped, and bent double in his chair with a groan.

*

Ford could trace it back, perhaps, to when they were just children – that was certainly what Freud would do, peering speculatively over his pipe and hemming on about Ford’s mother and the particular shame of wetting the bed when your father had two states of being, one of which was disappointed in you, and when your brother slept in the same room and was forced to help clean up. Ford didn’t subscribe to that. For him, it had started, as many of his desires, in the euphoric throes of a battle won, an enemy avoided, another day hard-earned.

That is to say, he had pissed himself in another dimension, and it had felt so phenomenal that he’d never been able to recreate the experience. He could count on one hand the number of orgasms he’d had that bested it. There had just been something intensely _primal_ about it. He’d been on the run for almost an hour, his panic intensified by the fact that he had to urinate for most of it – and then, through inventiveness and a particularly fragrant batch of bushes, the demon that had been hunting Ford down had lost him, and Ford was safe. He was alive. He was _jubilant,_ and then, as if his body couldn’t contain the intensity of those emotions, he’d started to piss, hot and fast, his urine soaking into his pants and pattering into the grass beneath him.

He’d moaned so loudly that he was sure the demon would find him again – but no, Ford was alone, emptying himself of all his panic and helplessness and anger, drained until all that was left was the bliss of being alive. When the piss had finally petered off, it had soaked all the way down to his ankles, dripped onto his boots, left him filthy and humble and trembling with how good it’d felt.

With Stanley, of course, it was a new development. Stan had a tendency to piss over the side of the boat whenever he needed to – why use the bathroom for that when the world’s biggest toilet was overboard? – and Ford, despite all of his reservations, kept finding himself listening closely, watching out of the corner of his eye, going a little too still so he could catch Stan’s sighs of relief. It was a second-hand thrill, one he didn’t ever plan to broach.

Luckily, or unluckily depending on Ford’s feelings at the time, Stan broached it for him. “You should do it, too,” Stan said, his hips canted toward the railings. “Don’t know why you don’t already – I mean, I’ve already seen it all.”

Ford flushed. “It’s crass,” he said. His voice was perfectly level, but Stan had always homed in on Ford’s blushes. They were one of his favorite things.

“What?” he said, and laughed. “Ford, what I did to you this morning was crass.” He shook himself and zipped back up. “What, are you into that kind of thing?”

And, well, Ford had never been any good at lying to his brother. That was Stan’s forte.

*

“It’ll be fun,” Stan had said, and, “You won’t regret it,” and so far, both of those were wrong.

At eleven, Stan had woken him up by shaking his bed and shouting nonsense in his ear. At eleven o’five, he’d slapped a cup of burnt coffee in his hands and said, “Drink it up, Poindexter. We’re doing this.”

“Doing what?” he’d asked, still bleary and annoyed from Stan’s wake-up call.

“You don’t get to pee until I tell you,” Stan announced, grinning from ear to ear.

Ford had blinked, and flushed, and said, “Oh. Alright. Why today?”

“Because we got nothin’ better to do until we hit Greenland,” Stan said. 

“Fair enough.” He drained his coffee and set it aside, prepared to get to work checking the boat, but Stan had sat him down and poured a second cup. “…really?”

“Really,” Stan said, and beamed.

That was an hour and two glasses of water ago. Ford was pacing, now, the pressure in his stomach tight and insistent. Stan, who had apparently woken up early to finish the chores, lounged in a deck chair, sipped a glass of water, and watched Ford with a Cheshire grin. “What’s the matter, Poindexter?” he asked. “You seem… _uncomfortable.”_

_“_ Ha, ha,” Ford said. “That was such a funny observation the first two times that I’m glad you decided to revive it.” 

“Third time’s a charm,” Stan said. “C’mon, have a seat, relax! Enjoy the view!” Stan patted his thigh invitingly.

“Pass,” Ford said. The pressure between his legs intensified in a wave and he stopped, gritting his teeth. Breathe, he thought. Count down from ten. “Stan, I don’t think you understand. If I could just – “

“Nope. Not yet.” Stan sipped his water noisily; a shiver ran through Ford and he pressed a hand between his legs reflexively. “Seriously, sit down. You keep walking around like that and it’ll dribble out of you.” 

Ford’s blushed up to the tips of his ears; the heat ran down his neck. His pulse ticked between his legs, which only made the pressure there worse. “Jesus, Stanley.”

“What? It will. Trust me. Sit down.” 

Ford gritted his teeth, but he complied, delicately folding himself into the free deck chair. The change of position made him hiss and tighten his thighs – but Stan was right. Once he was sitting, the pressure was a little more bearable. “Holding it too long can cause bladder infections,” Ford said, through his teeth.

“Uh huh.” Stan took another loud sip of water and Ford twitched. “Want some?” he asked, holding out the glass.

It wasn’t a request. Ford choked back a noise and reached out, taking the glass. He took a moment to just hold it in both hands and stare at it; logically, he knew that it would take time for the water to reach his bladder, that by the time Stanley let him piss, it likely wouldn’t be a factor. And yet – and yet.

“You know I didn’t poison it, right?”

“I hate you,” he said, and took a long draw. The water was cool, and he could feel it drain down his esophagus into his stomach. He shuddered and grimaced. His body went tight, insistent and needy.

“Alright, dumbass,” Stan said. 

*

Ford had to piss so badly he was shaking. He didn’t know if he’d be able to obey Stan before pissing himself.

“Get down,” Stan said. “On your knees.”

Ford slowly knelt. He was flushed through with anticipation, his mouth dry; he didn’t know what Stan was planning, but hoped, suddenly, that Stan would make him suck him off. He licked his lips and pressed his hands tight against his cock, barely holding himself back. “Stan,” he said.

“Go ahead and unzip,” Stan said, “but don’t take your dick out, yet.” Stan began to palm himself through his pants. There was a certain intensity that always overcame Stan when he was in power over Ford, greedy and desperate and oddly protective. Stan was an asshole and a tease, but he always seemed to know where Ford’s limits were, sometimes before Ford. 

With that in mind, Ford obeyed, carefully unzipping and tugging his pants down his hips. The change in pressure made him gasp and shudder and think, _it’s happening, oh god –_ but he managed to stop himself just in time. A few drops soaked sedately into his underwear. “Stanley,” he said, almost a whine.

Stan chewed his lip. “Alright,” he said, “whip it out. But don’t piss, yet. I just wanna look at it.”

“I hate you so much,” Ford said, and thumbed down his underwear to reveal his cock, soft and heavy. The cool air made him gasp. “Stanley, please, I – please, I can’t hold it anymore.”

Stan’s face softened.He never could say no to Ford when he begged. He walked around and squatted behind Ford, then, to Ford’s shock, wrapped his arm around his waist and took his cock in his hand. He angled it away from Ford’s legs, gave it a light squeeze, and said, “Alright. Go on.”

Ford had been needing to piss for so long that it was hard to start, now that he had permission – he hissed through his teeth and shifted, and started to let go. The first second or two was just a short burst that was almost painful – and then something broke in him, and Ford began to piss in earnest, hard and fast, a stream that hit the deck with enough force to make a hissing, splattering sound. He shuddered and moaned, pressing hard into Stan. It came, and came, spraying over the deck.

Stan began to press wet kisses to Ford’s throat, his stubble scraping against him. “Whoa,” he said. “Whoa.”

Ford moaned again, louder, his cock starting to go stiff in Stan’s hand. It was incredible, and freeing, and disgusting, and Ford never wanted it to end, wanted to be held like this and let everything go until there was nothing left inside of him and Stan could inhabit him instead, crawl into him and fill him with something better.

Finally, the stream turned into a trickle, and then petered into nothing. Ford panted, gulping down air; he was half-hard in Stan’s hand, his body thrumming with the euphoria of release.

“Feel better?” Stan asked, mouthing at Ford’s jaw.

All he could manage was a feeble _yes._

*

Later that night, Ford was busy with a translation of a tome when Stan came to bed. Stan sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, and studied Ford with nearly the same intensity as Ford had for his text – certainly with enough intensity that Ford noticed.

He lifted his head and blinked at Stan. “Is it time for bed?” he asked, mildly.

“I was just thinking,” Stan said. He scratched the back of his neck, looking somewhere to the left of Ford, self-conscious enough to pique Ford’s interest. “About the pee stuff, I mean. Is, uh, that all you’re willing to do? What we did today?”

Ford’s skin began to prickle, coming alive with heat. “You have something in mind?” he asked, as neutral as he could be when his flush was giving him away again.

Stan shot him a nervous grin and leaned forward on his elbows. “I got an idea or two.”

Ford turned. That was the thing about adventuring with Stan: There was always something new around the bend, another avenue to explore. He couldn’t help but grin back. “I’m listening.”


End file.
